A./N.: This is my first fanfiction for Gilmore Girls. I started this story for my best friend who is a huge fan of the series. The idea for this sort of ff came to me while reading the Diana Gabaldon series (once again) and I could suddenly envision Emily doing something like this. So hope you enjoy. Ilane

Dear Lorelai

My dear Lorelai – I wrote, and stopped. I couldn't. Couldn't possibly be contemplating to apologize to my child in writing, but whenever we met and made an attempt to speak about what had transpired in the past we fought and hurt each other further. To see those three black words stark on the page brought the whole mad idea into a cold clarity that struck me to the bone.

My hand shook, and the tip of the pen made small wavering circles in the air above the paper. I put it down, and clasped my hands between my thighs, eyes closed.

"Get a grip on yourself, Gilmore," I muttered. "Write the stupid thing and have done with it. If she doesn't need it, it will do no harm, and if she does, it will be there." I picked up the pen and began again.

I don't know if you will ever read this, but perhaps it's as well to set it down. This is what I know of your grandparents, your great-grandparents, and your medical history ...

I wrote for some time, covering page after page. My mind grew calmer with the effort of recall, and the necessity of setting down the information clearly, and then I stopped, thinking.

What could I tell her, beyond those few bare bloodless facts? How to impart what sparse wisdom I had gained in sixty-five years of a fairly eventful live? My mouth twisted wryly in consideration of that. Did any daughter listen? I had tried and Lorelai had always snapped at me and not taken my advice. Would I, had my mother been there to tell me?

It made no difference, though; I would just have to set it down, to be of use if it could.

But what was true, that would last forever, in spite of changing times and ways, what would stand her in good stead? Most of all, how could I tell her just how much I loved her?

The enormity of what I was about to do gaped before me, and my fingers clenched tight on the pen. I couldn't think – not and do this. I could only set the pen to the paper and hope.

Baby – I wrote, and stopped. Then swallowed hard, and started again.

You are my baby, and always will be. You will know what that means since you have a child of your own, anyway – you'll always be as much a part of me as when you shared my body and I felt you move inside. Always.

I can look at you, asleep, and think of all the nights I tucked you in, coming in the dark to listen to your breathing, lay my hand on you and feel your chest rise and fall, knowing that no matter what happens, everything is right with the world because you are alive.

All the names I've called you through the years – my pumpkin, precious dove, darling, sweetheart, yes even bighead ... I know why the Jews and Muslims have nine hundred names for God; one small word is not enough for love.

I blinked hard to clear my vision, and went on writing, fast; I didn't dare take time to choose my words, or I would never write them.

I remember everything about you, from the tiny line of black down that zigged across your forehead when you were hours old to the bumpy toenail on the big toe you broke last year, when you had that fight with Luke and kicked the door of his pickup truck, even though you think I never listen to you.

God, it broke my heart when it all so suddenly stopped – that watching you, seeing all the tiny changes, seeing you grow suddenly taller than I, and your face take its shape. I always will remember, Lorelai, I always will.

There's probably no one else on earth, Lorelai, who knows what the back of your ears looked like when you were three years old. I used to sit beside you, reading "One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish" or "The Three Billy Goats Gruff" and see those ears turn pink with happiness. Your skin was so clear and fragile, I thought a touch would leave fingerprints on you.

You look like Richard, I told you. You have something from me, too, though – look at the picture of my mother, in the box, and the little black-and-white one of her mother and grandmother. You have that broad clear brow they have; so do I. I've seen a good many of the Gilmores, too – I think you'll age well, if you take care of your skin.

Take care of everything, Lorelai – oh, I wish – well, I have wished I could take care of you and protect you from everything all your life, but I can't, whether you let me or not. Take care of yourself, though – for me.

The tears were puckering the paper now; I had to stop to blot them, lest they smear the ink beyond reading. I wiped my face, and resumed, slower now.

You should know, Lorelai – I don't regret it. In spite of everything, I don't regret it. You'll know something now, of how lonely I was in the first months after you left. It doesn't matter. If the price of that separation was a little more understanding between us, neither Richard nor I can regret it – I know he wouldn't mind my speaking for him.

It would be a lie to say we weren't disappointed in you, Lorelai. You were a child, more importantly my child, when you became pregnant. You hear of girls getting pregnant when they are still underage but you never think that could happen to your own child.

When you told us that you were with child, I was shocked and afraid. Why was I afraid, you might ask and I know that this time I will have to answer. You have to understand, Lorelai, that this is hard for me; I was never very good at expressing my feelings, anyway ...

I swallowed the lump in my throat with some difficulties and I had to set down the pen for a moment. My hands were shaking so badly that I was afraid I would mess up the whole page. How could I tell my only child about this? How could I expect her to understand? I closed my eyes for a few moments, trying to calm my breathing and my shaking hands. As soon as I succeeded, I grabbed the pen and wrote furiously.

You were a difficult pregnancy. In my fourth month I sat on the patio in the sun when all of a sudden I started bleeding and cramping. I was so afraid that I could lose you. A single tear hit the page before my steely resolve took over again. The last thing I can remember is calling out to your father. Then blackness engulfed me and I cannot remember what happened next. All I know is that I woke in the hospital, still with terrible cramps and doctors hovering over me. What I deduced from their worried glances and your father's thoughtfulness afterwards is that I had been damn close to losing you. But I didn't. For the next months I followed the doctors' orders to the t but still bled lightly from time to time. In my last month they ordered bed-rest and I was slowly getting stir-crazy. Your father was admirably, helping me deal with my frustration and enduring my mood swings. Finally the calculated birth date was reached but suddenly you weren't too eager to be born. A week after the due date the doctors induced labour. Suffice it to, it lasted 23 hours and I nearly died during it. I bled heavily and my uterus sunk through my abdomen. They had to do an emergency operation and remove it. You were my first and my only child and would always be.

Again tears were puckering the page but I forced myself to swallow them and continue on doggedly. I couldn't stop now or I would never start again.

I hope you will never understand what that means to a young woman not yet married for more than four years.

When you told me that you were pregnant I was so afraid you would have the same problems as I had. I was so afraid to lose my baby, my only child. You misunderstood my concern for you for trying to control your life. It was never meant as that, Lorelai, never.

And in the hospital when I yelled at you for leaving us nothing but a note ... I was terrified. I felt as though I would cry hysterically if I didn't yell ... I did in fact cry hysterically after you were wheeled away. I think this is another mistake I made in your up-bringing. I always yelled rather than deal with my true emotions. I apologize from the bottom of my heart. Please believe me, Lorelai, when I say I'm sorry.

Rory brought not only new life to our house and lives but was also like the sun, brightening our days with her smiles. Neither your father nor I regret her existence. We are so lucky to have her and we love her very much indeed. Only your timing was a little off ...

We wanted you to get married to Christopher not to get rid of you but only because it was the proper thing to do and we were raised to always do the proper thing, no matter the personal sacrifices.

It broke my heart when you left our home to find your own life ... so very far away from ours.Again my hands shook and memories flashed before my eyes. I saw her note before me instead of my own letter and heard my own voice ringing in my ears, calling for Lorelai and Rory.I don't want to cause you a guilty conscience, don't think that, but I feel that you have to know what happened in that first month after you left.

Your father immediately called the police but they told us that you were nothing but an angry teenager who wanted to show her parents that she was all grown-up now and that you would probably be camping out at a friend's. They told us to wait till morning when you would stand in front of the door again, they were sure.

How I hoped you would show up the next morning? I prayed to God to bring you home, I begged him and promised that I would be a much better mother than before. But you never came back.

After two days my hope had dwindled away and I was begging God to just see you safe and let me know that my little girl hadn't been robed, raped and murdered. My hand shook so badly at those words that they came out all messy and barely readable. When no calls from the police came in for days, I collapsed and sobbed for what seemed like hours. Your father called Joshua and then carried me upstairs to our bedroom. He placed me on the bed and tucked me in. For the next month this became my permanent resting place. I rarely ate and didn't get up anymore. Richard was very worried for my health and sanity. It was your aunt Hope, with the help of Sweetie, who got me to pull myself together in the end.

I gave up on my anger a long time ago. The disappointment and sorrow are harder to overcome and forgive. I only want you to be happy ... and maybe let me be part of your life. Not because I force you to but because you want me to.

Mia, the owner of the Independence Inn, called us and told us that you had started to work for her. She told us that you were homesick but didn't want to show that and that Rory cried every night before falling asleep. I guess you have inherit my pride, anyway – six years ago when Mia came to check on the Inn and you, I went over and asked her for pictures from back then.

Seeing those pictures shows me clearly how much I have missed out on. I know now that I am to blame for that. Don't get me wrong, I don't take full blame but I can swallow my pride today and say that I made mistakes.

Lorelai ... you are my joy. You're perfect, and wonderful – and I hear you saying now, in that tone of exasperation, "And why did you never tell me that before?" I must admit that I cannot think of a reason except my pride.

Lorelai, you are worth everything – and more. I've done a great many things in my life so far, but the most important of them all was to love your father and you.

I blew my nose and reached for another fresh sheet of paper. That was the most important thing; I could never say all I felt, but this was the best I could do. What might I add, to be of aid in living well, in growing old? What had I learned, that I might pass on to her?

Choose a man like your father, I wrote. Once you've chosen a man, don't try to change him, I wrote, with more confidence. It can't be done. More important – don't let him try to change you. He can't do it either, but men always try.

I bit the end of the pen, tasting the bitter tang of ink. And finally I put down the last and the best advice I knew, on growing older.

Stand up straight and try not to get fat.

With All My Love Always,

Mum